The Power of Life and Death
by TheSouthernScribe
Summary: Mirror Fic Remix for livejournal issenterprise challenge.


_Hello everyone – been a while since I played over here. _

_Working on challenge fics and venturing into new fandoms have consumed my time. I debated long and hard about posting this fic over here. It's dark. It's far from fluff. This was written for the Mirror Remix Challenge on livejournal. I remixed a fabulous McCoy/Uhura drabble written by Mardia for the challenge. _

_Be warned – this is a mirror fic. Expect violence and twisted - tainted happiness. Still at the root is what I love, my Trek OTP. Thank you to the ladies of WA for their continued encouragement. _

_**Disclaimer: Still don't own them. **_

_**The Power of Life and Death**_

Nyota's always liked Leonard's hands.

They're strong and capable, with long slim fingers that she likes to look at, whether they're folded up on his desk or moving through the air as he talks. There's something endearing about it, the way that his hands can never stay still as he talks, how he uses them for emphasis, to punctuate whatever it is he's saying.

She likes how steady his hands are, how skilled, it's common knowledge that Leonard McCoy's one of the best surgeons in the Empire and his work on the Enterprise only confirms that. Nyota remembers overhearing Kirk once, at the Academy, insisting that his friend could bring the dead back to life with a scalpel, and Nyota knows that even now, a good percentage of the crew half-believes it. Even after they've seen what their Captain is capable of doing to those who cross him, things that McCoy routinely has to fix.

She likes having his hands touching her, whether it's just to hold her hand in his, fingers interlaced, as they walk underneath an alien sun when they're on shore leave, or when he's surreptitiously tucking a loose strand of hair behind her hair, fingers warm against her skin for a moment as he gives her a secret, sardonic smile.

Most of all, Nyota likes Leonard's hands best when he's got two fingers deep inside of her and a thumb rubbing at her clit, his warm breath on her skin as he noses at her jaw line, murmuring softly, "C'mon, sweetheart, that's it, come for me now," and she does, crying out and clutching at him, her hips jerking up into his touch.

They're talented hands.

McCoy's skills with the tools of his trade are unparalleled.

Anticipation spreads across Nyota's skin as he presses the scalpel to her jugular. Silent threats line the blade ready to slice the copper toned flesh. The potential for harm grows with each flicker of his wrist. Every artery and vein in her body pulsates with excitement. She craves the danger almost as much as the man.

Nyota arches into his touch, relishing the momentary pain that blossoms into pleasure with the prick of the cool metal. She hisses as the tool snakes a path from clavicle to shoulder before separating the silken material of her uniform. Not one complaint falls from her lips as the sharp blade travels across the plane of her stomach leaving a trail of superficial wounds that trickle with her blood. She winces when the flames on his tongue sear the skin of her belly. He licks and laves, stroking her flesh, not in torture, but the purest form of reverie.

Her legs open for him and there is no fear greater than the arousal seeping through the material shielding her mound. Expert and deft fingers wield the serrated edge against the nectar soaked fabric. Careful not to create an irreparable injury, the doctor shreds Nyota's panties, pinching her skin along the blade's course, catching the fine hairs covering her entrance.

The burst of air is a relief and the sway of the breeze increases the secretion of liquid from her inner walls. Nyota finds it impossible to maintain her composure.

"Quit your squirmin' or I'll tie you down."

A sound, vaguely reminiscent of a murmur but not quite a moan, passes from the linguist's lips. There are no words that will do this moment justice.

"You like that…don't you darlin'." The hand pressing her firmly down into the bed is unnecessary. She's a willing and eager participant. Nyota holds her breath as the doctor forces her hips wider, exposing her to him fully. She can feel the point of the blade against the bundle of nerves she longs for him to taste. She welcomes his presence between her thighs, the evidence of his enjoyment straining against the scrubs he's wearing.

The knife clatters to the tile beneath McCoy's feet. Nyota's head lolls back when his thumbs brush her breasts.

She's always loved his hands.

McCoy tweaks Nyota's nipples urging the pebbled peaks to stand at attention with his ministrations. He stretches his body until his mouth encases her right breast as his hand kneads the left. A finger drifts south, tracing her lower lips.

He slips past her folds and she bites her bottom lip swallowing her moan. Her body tenses on the verge of yet another orgasm. She pretends to be angry, twisting in his grasp as her eyes find the part of him that wants her most. The doctor wastes little effort peeling back the elastic band of his pants. McCoy's cock springs free and tickles the skin of her inner thigh.

"Ready to come for me again, lil'lady?"

It's a tortuously slow affair as his hips fight to move under the weight of her legs wrapped around his waist. McCoy fills Nyota with one stroke. She doesn't yield. Her movements are restricted, lungs at capacity with air yet to be expelled.

"Don't fight it…" He slams into her once more and this time she cries out, a strangled curse on the back of his name.

Nyota's walls of resistance tumble to the ground.

"Again."

He likes it when she levels her commands.

"Harder."

Her nails dig into his scalp and he's driving deeper, hammering away, creating an inferno between the planes of their bodies. She's meeting him thrust for thrust, accepting all he has to offer. She clenches around his length when his fingers meet her clit.

It's always the hands...

Always his fucking hands.

Nyota returns to her quarters, fully sated, on unsteady legs.

_ II._

Nyota's always liked Leonard's hands.

They're weapons within their own right; Dr. Leonard McCoy possesses no need for the toys the men of the Enterprise clutch tightly in their well choreographed shows of defiance. His power is real and true. So obvious, outsiders recognize it within mere seconds. Violence, blood, and gore are not in his arsenal, no, they solely exists for his woman's pleasure.

McCoy captures Nyota's attention during their first mission. She witnesses the salvation of the life of an uncooperative ensign. As she accompanies the first officer to sickbay to fulfill her duties as translator, the doctor's gruff demeanor strikes her before his disarming good looks set her ablaze.

The doctor quickly dismisses Commander Spock and begins his routine performance of miracles; when she turns to follow the ship's second in command out the door, a simple yet authoritative, "Stay," halts her movements.

"I may need your services, Lieutenant." The doctor's voice is soft, warm, and uncharacteristically inviting. There's something in the way he utters her rank.

She obeys.

He works with intensity, sweat dripping from his brow, concentration basking in the shadows of his face.

"Fucking savages." He rambles, running deft fingers along the man's dislocated jaw. "Least have the common decency to regenerate the man's insides before passing him to a friend." The dissertation ends as he works to repair his patient in silence.

Nyota doesn't expect the doctor's tenderness. She's seen the Captain dispose of men and women once their values decline, watched in helpless disbelief as contemporaries took untold liberties with crewmates and captives. McCoy, the Captain's closest confidant, is the exact opposite.

She watches as slim fingers circle the patient's wrist and a look of satisfaction crosses his face when the steady rhythm of the man's heart appears on the screen.

McCoy stands, relinquishing his position beside the bed. He ignores the strained words the man speaks as he takes calculated steps towards his office.

Nyota translates a portion of the drug induced rant: "He thanks you for his life."

"Dumb bastard," McCoy shakes his head as he stares at the battered body filling the bed. "They'll do the same shit tomorrow, and I can't fix him again."

A chill runs down her spine.

His words are true.

In the days that follow, no one notices their clandestine exchanges.

Lustful sneers pass across the table during the morning briefings.

Fingertips play at the nape of Nyota's neck when McCoy arrives on the bridge seeking an audience with their Captain. He stares openly at her while in deep discussions with his friend.

Their paths cross in empty corridors.

Nyota palms him in passing, caressing the bulge created by the sight of her pink tongue skimming her lips, as she enters the turbolift. There's distance between them as they travel from level to level. He's a temptation; the masculine scent of his skin plays around her nose. The mischief lighting his eyes encourages her to move closer. Her shoulders are level to his chest, ass grinding against his groin; McCoy's groan is deep and guttural when his hand stretches to halt the lift.

"Finish what you started, lieutenant."

That same hand grips the bare skin of her ass and Nyota is certain he approves. He traps her frame between the heat of his body and the cool wall, McCoy is far from gentle as he stretches her in preparation for fucking. There's an internal debate as one long finger meanders its way around Nyota's smaller opening before dipping lower to the valley between her thighs. Her breaths are shallow and quickly give way to pants as he moves one then two slowly in and out before increasing his pace. He toys with the wetness sliding down her thighs. The doctor slips his fingers from Nyota's folds, easing them past her lips. She sucks them clean.

It's not enough - she needs more.

The lowering of his zipper answers her request.

She drops to her knees, taking him into her mouth. Loving the strength he displays as he wraps the length of her hair around his hand. He inches down her throat, filling her mouth, growling with each flicker of her tongue. She nips at the blood engorged tip, savoring the drop of his excitement. His flavor excites her taste buds and she slurps and pops, following the motions of his long full strokes.

McCoy's impatience grows; he steps back from Nyota's attentions, lifts her from the floor, teasing her tits as he walks her to the wall. She turns in his grasp, arching the swell of her bottom, preparing for his entry.

Nyota slams into McCoy's thrusts, finding that sweet spot deep within her cavernous walls. It's his discovery, the place that brings her to the brink of insanity. Those same fingertips that spoke his intentions on the bridge dig into the flesh of her thighs. Her bruises will serve as a wonderful reminder of their new affair. She will replay their seconds of pleasure over and over again in solitude while thinking of him.

He fills her with a shout, kissing the column of her spine. His way is that of a lover, not a predator who takes what he wants without asking. His hands cup her face, eyes boring into her soul, seeking approval. Nyota nods, accepting that this will not be her final encounter with McCoy.

He exits at the next level.

_III._

Nyota accepts the glass of amber liquid from Leonard's hand; fresh memories cause heat to rush to her cheeks. Wicked months spent fulfilling his insatiable appetite pepper her thoughts. Their lives are destruction. Friendship, comfort, and pleasure are outdated theories that are no longer hold relevance in their universe.

Yet here they are.

Eagerness laces the bitter kisses, tainted by their lives aboard the Enterprise; the purity of the moment is tainted by the hatred in their hearts. Nyota can't pinpoint when everything changes. She finds solace in the doctor's arms, relief in the twisted smirks that grace his face, and something vaguely akin to love in his touch. It's in the lips that brush her forehead and barely ghost across the base of her neck. It's hidden in the grunts that fill her ears when she straddles his lap and takes anger, pain, and unspeakable joy in his relentless thrusts. She's his canvas, blank, capable of absorbing the words and feelings he's unable to express.

Finally it's in his hands.

They're twice the size of hers; fingers entwine as he loses his cares in the memorization of the lines on their palms. There are fissures in Nyota's and Leonard's love lines, breaks and gaps that signify past encounters and heartbreaks. His pointer finger traces the spot where her life line disappears. He presses their palms together, exorcising the thought, and treasuring the warmth in her touch. He pulls her into his arms and kisses the crown of her head.

McCoy protects Nyota, barricading her from the darkness that stalks, waits, and longs for control of her spirit.

"You're my only weakness."

The words are balm that soothes the wounds of her heart. She doesn't know what she could be without him. Possibly, Nyota would be the Captain's woman, heartless and cruel, or a succubus with an appetite for death.

"I don't want to be your weakness, Leonard."

Vices and proclivities aside, Nyota loves McCoy - trusts him despite all she sees and knows about the Empire. Dependence is not a luxury they possess. Dominance is the key to self preservation.

Nyota breaks that rule every time she curves into the crook of his arm or relishes his touch. Her submission is not to the doctor, but to her self and the dreams that transcend the barbaric nature in which she lives.

In the end it's the Captain who invades their short - lived nirvana, sporting a toothy grin, face redolent of the cat that got the cream. He's without the support and protection of his entourage. There's no Spock, Sulu, or oversized brigade of goons. Just Jim Kirk dressed in a black t-shirt and slim pants.

"Well, if it isn't the doctor and his whore." There is a bite in his words. An inflection she doesn't recognize.

Nyota feels Leonard's body go rigid beneath her. His jaw is set; the distinct grinding of teeth can be heard.

She's praying - something she's rarely done. Hoping that maybe Kirk only wants to watch and not dispose of either of them in his typical fashion.

She worries.

Healer…savior…redeemer…that's McCoy; she's never known him to be a fighter.

Jim's all hazard and action without consideration of the consequences.

McCoy's a slow thinker and patient strategist.

Hate lingers in Kirk's eyes as he stares at the scene before him, gaze flittering over Nyota's visibly bare skin, and his disgust goes unmasked. Etchings of pain embellish the day to day sadness he wears when his vision lands on McCoy. Now Nyota understands Jim's wrath, and vengeance will be her final gift.

She doesn't owe her thanks to the denials of his prior advances.

Nor can the hours of open mocking support the decision he's sure to make.

Nyota has stolen the one thing the Captain craves but which continues to elude him. McCoy reads his Captain's face, deciphering the same code. The doctor's arms tighten around her as he gently deposits her body on the bed. He's glorious, shoulders square, head held high as he challenges Kirk.

He'll die for her, willingly, without hesitation.

All she can think about is his hands; virtuous, not malicious, instruments. The good he can continue to do once Kirk's influence has lifted and her power rescinded.

The doctor's knuckles are white now as he grips the Captain's throat. His eyes are glazed with blood lust. With every second, Kirk draws nearer to death, McCoy's soul grows darker. She's losing him. The very essence of what he was created to be seeps into the atmosphere with every labored breath of the Captain.

There's a flurry of motion, as the Captain attempts to wrestle from McCoy's hands. His efforts are futile. Neither Nyota nor McCoy see the blade that slips from Kirk's sleeve.

She cannot let her doctor become this man. Today, Nyota will pay the ultimate price on his behalf. Her fingers find the dagger beneath the pillow. A war cry spills from her lips as she lunges from the bed, slicing the Captain's neck. Realization does not occur immediately. McCoy stands in shock, unable to comprehend

The rivulets of blood creep between the Captain's fingers.

His eyes stretch.

His mouth opens and then curves into a maniacal grin.

He gasps as his body folds and falls to the floor.

It's too late when Nyota senses the pain in her chest. The Captain's blade is lodged in chest; she's a casualty of their frenzied battle. She collapses when her knees buckle and her body begins to convulse. Kirk's dead, spirit remanded to its fiery home.

The tears in McCoy's eyes are a clear indication of her fate.

Warm hands examine the damage to her skin.

_Nyota's always liked Leonard's hands... __  
_  
"Nyota…" The darkness' call is louder than her name on his lips. Its power is impossible to fight.

_They're strong and capable, with long slim fingers that she likes to look at, whether they're folded up on his desk or moving through the air as he talks..._

"Leonard…" She clings to his hand, pain weaving through her body

_She likes how steady his hands are… _

"Stay with me. You're okay." Those hands she loves are stained by her blood.

_She likes having his hands touching her, whether it's just to hold her hand in his, fingers interlaced…_

"No I'm not." Her words are barely audible. She can feel the dull drum of her heart. She drifts in and out of consciousness. "Let me go."

"I can't, Nyota. Stay." His hand reaches for the blade and it takes every ounce of strength she has left.

"No. I will only poison you." Even as she speaks, tears burn her eyes. She's giving up her peace for his integrity. "Don't change."

_Nyota's always liked Leonard's hands. _They're strong and capable, with long slim fingers that wipe the tears from her eyes. They don't move, they hold her still, gingerly pressing her to his chest. She listens to the beat of his heart, the hiccups between his breaths, the gut wrenching sobs on the wings of his wails.

Even in death, she loves his hands.

McCoy's hands are warm and smooth as they caress her cold, clammy skin.


End file.
